Durin's Folk
by ParumLuter
Summary: A collection of tales revolving around Thorin and his siblings, from Erebor to Ered Luin. Will feature characters from the Company, cameos from known characters and just pure mischief from the first Durin troublemakers: Yours truly and his brother, Frerin. Completely movie-verse, while taking some elements from the book. DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING.
1. The Apple Eater

**Hi, readers. Welcome to my new fanfic! I got inspired to write this because there are simply not enough fanfics about Thorin's upbringing, so...yeh :)**

**Warning: Coarse language **

**Enjoy!**

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_When in doubt, throw ink at the apple eater's head._

These were the kind of thoughts running currently through the mind of Thorin, the eldest Heir of Durin as he angrily crossed out the word he had misspelt for the third time in a row.

Partly, it was because was bored.

Mainly, it was because of the brown-haired dwarf smirking at him as he leaned on a nearby bookshelf, casually observed his frustrated brother as he munched loudly on an apple. It was _very_ distracting.

"Frerin, could you _please_ go away?" Thorin complained. "I have to finish this homework for Master Foln by tomorrow," Master Foln was the royal tutor, and though he was a kind-hearted dwarf, he was strict on homework.

_Very_ strict.

"Really?" Frerin tossed his apple up into the air and caught it again. Thorin swore that he only had an apple _just _to look more like an arsehole. "What is it about?"

"I told you already," Thorin growled. "The Battle of Dagorlad,"

"Interesting," Frerin nodded, unfazed by his brother's growing irritation. "What it is about?"

"Just some stupid 'Last Alliance' trash and a ring,"

"Any chance of going down to the Training Hollow later on?"

"Not if you keep on disturbing me! By Mahal, you're dense!"

"But I want talk, dear brother. I mean, you _are _my only sibling,"

"Have you forgotten Dis? Your sister born _just_ three years ago?"

"She's too young and boring to play with," Frerin made a face. "Plus, I'd rather spar or something."

"Go spar with Dwalin—I'm sure he'll enjoy your company,"

"Dwalin thinks I'm an arrogant prick and an elf-lover, remember?" Frerin took another bite out of his apple. _Wow, _Thorin thought. _Shouldn't Frerin have finished that apple by now? _"He despises me,"

"Well, that's you fault for draping his belongings in honey."

"That was his fault for-for thinking I wanted to train with a b-bow!" Frerin retorted, half stammering.

Thorin shrugged. "You're bound to get more things like said to you _if_ you do take up the bow. Remember, the bow _is _classified as an Elvish weapon, and Elves are prissy, cowardly tree-shaggers."

"It doesn't make a dwarf an elf-loving tree shagger. Plus, I can also handle a sword!"

_Right, _he thought. _With only a few months training…that's kind of impossible._

"Okay, enough talk. I need to finish this essay," Thorin held his hand up, before setting his quill to parchment to write about the dwarves' involvement in the battle.

"Will you spar with me afterwards?" Frerin widened his blue eyes in a puppy stare.

"If you shut up,"

Frerin dutifully shut up.

The afternoon sun was shining through the trees as Thorin and Frerin made their way down to the Training Hollow. The Training Hollow was well, a _hollow_, surrounded by leafy foliage and covered with sand. Many dummies and targets were strewn around the place, as the hollow was big enough for multiple groups of dwarves to train at once.

Dwarves began training at the age of 12, trying out their hand in various weapons. Once they knew a bit about each weapon, they could choose to specialise in a certain weapon. Thorin was nearing the age where he was expected to choose to specialise in his chosen weapon. Frerin, however, had only just started training.

"Are you sure you want to spar with me?" Thorin took one of the training swords off the weapons rack and began twirling it around. When it was time to choose a weapon, being a prince, one would be specially made for him in the forges of Erebor. "I mean, I have five more years of experience than you, and you've only just started training a few months ago, so..."

"Fine," Frerin turned to him. "How about I choose what weapons we use? So it'd be fairer."

"Seems right," Thorin agreed, "What do you propose first?"

"Archery,"

"Archery?" Thorin was confused. "But I only learnt that in my second year of weapons training,"

"I asked Master Thiznen to teach me the bow first." Since dwarves were not allowed to train their own children, Thrain had them tutored under Master Thiznen, who was the Captain of the Guard in Erebor. Though he was proficient in most weapons, he preferred to use his double-edged pole-arm.

"Alright," Thorin placed the sword back onto the rack, and grabbed a bow instead. "Though I beat you,"

"Indeed brother," Amusement was twinkling in the brunette's eyes as he notched an arrow in his bow. "Which is why I'll let you go first."

_This'll be too easy._ Thorin squared himself and marched over to the target range, where a few figures were practising their aim with deadly throwing knifes. He notched an arrow and let it fly. It zipped through the air and landed in the blue ring of the straw target. Twice more he shot an arrow, one landing in the blue and one landing in the red.

Clapping sounded behind him. He lowered his bow and turned around to see a black-headed dwarf wearing crimson and a tough looking dwarf with a Mohawk.

"Balin," Thorin greeted his cousin by clapping him on the back. "Dwalin," He pulled the other dwarf into a hearty hug.

"Nice shooting, Thorin," Balin nodded. He was gripping his chosen weapon— a mace skilfully forged by his father, Fundin.

"Too nice," Dwalin narrowed his eyes. He had always been suspicious of using a bow, even though he was too proud to admit that he could use one quite well. "Since when did _you _practise with a bow?"

Thorin laughed. "Don't worry—I won't take up the bow as my chosen weapon. I'm only versing this dwarf here in an archery contest," He waved his brother forward.

"Ah, Frerin," Balin nodded. Dwalin simply frowned.

"An archery contest?" His voice was sharp with distrust. "Who initiated this?"

"I did," Frerin glared back at Dwalin. "And since it's now my turn, I'd suggest you move out of my way."

The burly dwarf grunted, but stepped aside. Frerin pulled back the bowstring and the arrow, and let it fly loose. Three times it was shot.

_And three times, it hit the bulls-eye_.

Thorin stared at his brother with incredulity. _He can shoot_.

"I win then," Frerin said calmly, his hair flowing around him in the wind, making him look more mysterious.

Even Balin and Dwalin were silent. Then Dwalin started laughing.

"Oh hoh," he said, leaning on a nearby post to support himself. "Imagine that! A dwarf, handling a bow! That's going to confirm the rumours all right—that a Prince of Durin is actually an elf bastard—"

**_THWACK_**

Dwalin jumped back in shock, his face white. An arrow had imbedded itself in the wood just centimetres from his hand.

"What rumours?" Frerin's voice was low and quiet as he lowered the bow. Thorin knew this was someone different from his goofy baby brother.

_This dwarf was dangerous_.

Dwalin eyed the bow nervously as he spoke. "There have been rumours circulating around the other children that you were a dwarf-elf taken in out of pity by Lady Freya."

"Aye, the parents say this too," Balin added, looking acutely embarrassed. "They think that Frerin is a bad influence on their children."

"Why did you not tell me this before?" Thorin demanded. He had never heard anything like this before.

"We didn't want to worry you."

"Next time, tell us anything that any of the others say about Frerin," Thorin eyes blazed. "Frerin, let's go."

With a last glare at Dwalin, Frerin shoved the bow back onto the rack, and stomped after Thorin.

"So," His voice was sour. "What's your opinion on my archery skills?"

"Frerin," he said grimly, taking his brother by the shoulders. The brunette winced as he opened his mouth.

"I think they are wonderful."

"Really?" Frerin brightened up. "You think so?"

"Yeah! You're _dangerous_, Frerin. How did you get so good?"

"I sneaked out at night and practised," he shrugged. "Archery's very easy to pick up—it can take an hour to learn, but a lifetime to master. The bow relies on pure instinct."

"And will this be your chosen weapon?"

"Without a doubt. That said, what are going to choose for _your weapon_?"

"I don't know." Thorin's mind was completely on something else. Despite all the happiness for his brother, doubt gnawed at his mind. "I'm really happy for you, brother. But what would Father and Grandfather think?"

The change in Frerin's face and mood was instant. "I don't know. And then there's also those rumours—"

"Exactly," Thorin sighed. "But whatever they may say, we _know_ you're a dwarf. I was there when you were born, for Mahal's sake!"

"Yes, but _they_ weren't," Frerin retorted. "They can believe all they want, and no one will stop them,"

Thorin stopped. Whatever he telling himself, that last fact Frerin had stated was true—there was nothing anything could do about it.

"We can try sort something out," he reassured.

"Yeah," Frerin replied sulkily.

Seeing that the brunette was feeling quite down, he tried to cheer him up.

"Excited about seeing Dale tomorrow?"

It did the trick. "Of course! Who wouldn't be?"

They laughed, and made their way back up to the mountain.

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**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**

**I chose not to start with something like Frerin's birth or Dis's birth because I just can't write that stuff from a child's POV (since this story will all be told from Thorin's POV) so I hope that answers any queries :)**


	2. Dale

***Hugs followers and favourite-ers* THANK YOU SO MUCH! You are basically _fuelling_ this story. And without fuel, the story just...wouldn't go on. So thank you xD**

**Enjoy!**

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"Now, I want you boys to look your best when you go to Dale, okay?" Freya straightened her eldest son's tunic and ran her finger through her second son's hair, as she held a gurgling daughter. It was the day after they sparred, and when Thorin found out about Frerin's archery skills. Every six months, the royals would go down to Dale and trade, while inspecting the goods sold there. Naturally, this called for regal clothing and elaborate braids, which Thorin and Frerin despised.

"But Mother," Thorin whined for the 34th time, tugging at his clothes. "These are _itchy_!"

"Remind me again why I was looking forward to this," Frerin grumbled, pulling on his loose braids.

"You are Princes of Erebor," Freya said firmly. "And you are expected to look and behave like so." She leaned over to kiss each of her son's heads. "I love you, okay?"

"Yes Mother," They replied in unison. "We love you too."

"Then don't complain."

"Ah, it's the little princes, and _the princess,_" Thrain's voice boomed around the stone pillars as he pulled his sons into a tight hug, and bowed to the baby Dis.

"And who forget _my queen_?" He then bowed low to Freya, his beard sweeping the floor as she blushed.

"Away with you!" she cried, mortified at such behaviour.

"But it is true, Lady Freya," This time, it was Thror, who swept down to kiss her hand. "You _are _a queen."

"You boys always treat me so well," she said fondly. "Now let's go—we're wasting daylight."

They made their down in a royal procession to Dale's city square, where they were met with merchants and traders carrying boxes of goods. Their job was basically to inspect them and see if they were "trade worthy". This year, Thorin would be allowed to test the weapons and "dangerous" steel objects, whilst Frerin would be stuck with the boring, wooden objects and maybe some steel, if he was lucky.

"King Thror," A greying Man shook hands with his Grandfather. Thorin knew this man to be Girion, Lord of Dale, who was partners in business with Thror, and oversaw everything that happened in Dale.

"Princes Thorin and Frerin," he bowed to them. "Lady Freya, Princess Dis, Prince Thrain."

"What do you have to show me today, Girion?" Thror asked.

"Princes, if you may," Girion waved Thorin and Frerin forward. The merchants and traders dropped their chests and retreated into the crowd, where they silently watched.

The first chest that Thorin opened was full of silver and gold dwarven hair accessories. He picked up an elaborately carved silver bead and inspected it.

"Acting so professional aren't you, Thorin?" Frerin muttered quietly as he rolled a few gold beads in his hands. The merchant, a male dwarf with brown and grey hair observed them nervously.

_He smells like fish_. Thorin wrinkled his nose.

"And your name?" Thror pointed at him.

"Barin, Your Majesty, of the Blue Mountains."

"Grandson," He then pointed to the bead in his fingers. Thorin noticed his Grandfather liked to point at things a lot. "Does this look like fine craft to you?"

Thorin nodded.

"Well it does to me too. I approve of these goods."

The dwarf breathed a sigh of relief, as he closed the chest of beads and stepped back.

The next merchant was a woman with a chest full of perfumes and silks. Freya and Dis were brought forward this time. His mother draped the silk around his sister and threw pinches of the sweet scents into the air, and asked her if she liked it. When she gurgled a reply, Freya nodded her approval.

The brothers went through many chests. Chests of gold goblets, blown glass, even a chest of wooden toys! Thorin had been particularly engrossed in a wolf that could move its legs when Thorin pulled a lever. He showed it to his Father.

"Father, can I buy this one?"

Thrain chuckled. "Aren't you a bit too old for toys?" Nevertheless, he consulted with the merchant, and coins were exchanged.

"Someone's happy, aren't they?" Frerin smirked.

"Oh shut up," Thorin mumbled as he inspected his new toy.

"Mind you, when you're too old, I'll be taking that."

"I said, SHUT UP."

"Why hello, Princes," Thorin and Frerin looked up to see Girion benevolently looking down at them. "How nice to see you boys again,"

"Lord Girion," The brothers bowed.

"No need for that," he said hastily, and crouched down so he was level with them. That what Thorin like about Girion. He treated them as equals, not like silly dwarf princes.

"So, you are turning 18, Thorin?" he asked. He nodded firmly.

"I heard it was dwarf custom that apparently, on the 18th birth day of a dwarf, they would be presented with a chosen weapon. If you do not mind me asking, what have you chosen?"

"Not sure," Thorin shuffled his feet into the dirt. "I'm thinking of a sword and an axe."

"Good choice," Girion nodded. "On my 18th birth day, I was given a finely crafted longbow from my Grandfather. It has served me well over the years."

At the mention of the longbow, Frerin's eyes glittered.

"I see the light in your eyes, young one," Girion chuckled. "Do you wish for your chosen weapon to be a bow?"

Frerin nodded eagerly.

"His Majesty is blessed to have such diverse talents among his grandchildren," Girion smiled. "But isn't the bow a very uncommon weapon for a dwarf?"

"Yes, and that's what we're afraid of," Thorin said. "That—"

"That no one can teach me," Frerin butted in quickly, sending a quick, warning side glance at Thorin. "Since there aren't many dwarven archers,"

"I see," Amusement lit up the man's eyes. "Maybe you would allow me to teach you?"

"That would be _great,_" Frerin explained. "Provided we tell Father and Grandfather of course,"

Girion's brow furrowed. "Your… Father and Grandfather do not know of your skills?"

"Well…no," The brunette admitted, as he flashed a quick, cheeky grin at him. "But we'll eventually tell them,"

"I see," Girion nodded, not looking convinced. "And what does your weapons master say about this?"

"Yeah, what does Master Thiznen think about you using a bow?" Thorin asked, genuinely curious.

Frerin avoided his gaze. "He…doesn't know about my bow skills either. He believes that I want to use the long sword."

"You idiot," Thorin swatted his brother.

Girion bit his lip. "It would seem fitting to ask your Father's and Grandfather's permission to tutor you privately, but since you _don't_ want to tell them now…"

"I have an idea," Thorin said. "There's a meeting in Erebor every three months, which you are invited to, yes?"

"Yes," Girion nodded slowly.

"Well, maybe after the meeting, you could have a short session with Frerin just before you go back to Dale. So that way, it's quick, easy and less risky than sneaking out to have archery lessons. You'll just give some pointers to Frerin on how he's shooting and whatever, and then you can go."

"Seems right," Girion stood up, so now he was towering over them. "I shall see you in a few months then."

"Bye!" They waved, and the man smiled at them as he went to discuss business with Thror.

"Well, that was tedious," Frerin stuck his tongue out.

"Watch it!" Freya had seen him. "Show some respect to Lord Girion!"

"Wow, our mother has the eyes of a _hawk_," Thorin muttered. _In fact,_ he thought. _All mothers do_.

"Which is why we need to get out of her gaze," Frerin was smiling. Thorin knew that face very well. It was the face when Frerin draped honey over Dwalin's belongings.

It was the face of cunning and childish mischief.

"No," he said firmly, and turned his back so he would not fall prey to the puppy eyes of his brother.

"C'mon!" Suddenly, Thorin felt an iron grip on his hand.

"Get _off_ me, Frerin!" he snapped. "I am almost a grown dwarf!"

"But come on," The brunette moaned. "This is our only chance to explore Dale properly by ourselves! Mother doesn't let us go out without Fundin, and that's hardly ever!"

Thorin had to admit that was true. Rarely did they get to see the world outside of Erebor (except for meetings with stinky merchants) and if they did, they had to be accompanied by Fundin, their uncle. The only part in Dale they had properly seen was the city square, and glimpses of the sandy buildings from the balconies of the watchtowers. Thorin knew it was hard to resist such a temptation, now that Mother Hawk was chatting with the woman merchant selling the silks and perfumes.

"Okay," he gave in. "But for a short time only."

Frerin beamed.

"You will be the death of me," Thorin told him, as he let himself be dragged off into the crowd.

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**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**


	3. Apple Pie

**FUEL! I MUST HAVE FUEL!**

**Enjoy!**

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That decision was probably the best one that Thorin had made in his life.

The streets of Dale were more than _just streets_. They were sandy rivers of joy and light, the people like colourful fishes darting in and out of the stalls that lined the pathways.

"See?" Frerin grinned at the look on his face. "It's so worth it."

There were many pathways connecting to the city square, so they chose the left-most one and raced down, unconsciously having a running competition. This must've been one of the streets with houses, as they saw women flapping clothes out the window onto ropes to dry, and children flying kites or playing ball games in between the buildings.

"Come play with us!" A boy shouted at them. Frerin took a step forward, obviously keen but Thorin pulled him back. They waved goodbye as they continued on.

"Crossroads!" Frerin exclaimed as they skidded to a halt at a split in their current path.

"Hmmm…" Thorin thought for a moment. Both options looked equally exciting, so it was hard to choose.

"Left?" Before Frerin could answer, he took off.

"Lucky left," he heard his brother mutter.

And Thorin had chosen well. Judging by the wares in the nearby stalls, he could see that they sold fabrics and clothes in this lane.

"I feel a bit…conspicuous," His brother murmured as some people looked at them. Thorin felt the same way—the royal insignia was printed on the cuff of their sleeves and boots and they were dressed expensively. If people looked close enough, they could see that the brothers were the Princes of Erebor.

"That's why I chose this lane, eh?" Thorin spied a merchant selling cloth hoods. Walking casually, he slowly withdrew a small, leather pouch of money from his left sleeve.

Frerin gaped at it. "Where did you get _that_?"

"I won it in a bet," It was Thorin's turn to grin cheekily. "Loin challenged me to an arm wrestle, and I won."

"What can I do for you, Master Dwarves?" The merchant was a man draped in purple and red.

"May I buy two cloaks?" Thorin asked.

"You may. Four silver pieces please?"

He handed in the payment and chose a rich, navy hood as Frerin chose a leaf coloured garb. Nodding their thanks, they put them in, slipping the hoods over their heads. Instantly, they became part of the crowd. Thorin noticed less curious glances shot their way.

"Wow," Frerin remarked. "These basically make us invisible."

"Come on, let's go down there," There was a point where the street turned sharply and veered off into another path. Thorin pointed to a gap between the throng of people, where more stalls awaited them. They squeezed through the crowd and found themselves in a pathway of—

"Weaponry," Thorin and Frerin's faces split into identical evil smiles.

The first stall on their right sold an array of daggers and swords. One particular sword that caught Thorin's eye was a double-edged sword with a blue gem set in the hilt. The dagger next to it had a red stone with runes carved into it. Sadly, Frerin was not concentrated on the wares.

"That man looks creepy," he hissed to Thorin. The owner of the stall had thin straggly hair and an eye patch over his left eye.

Thorin shuddered. "Let's go then," He allowed himself to be pulled away by an uneasy Frerin.

"Look!" The hand on Thorin's arm disappeared. He whirled around to see Frerin racing towards a stall with bows on display.

"Oh no," he whispered. There was an elf manning the stall, and he was eyeing his brother with undisguised interest.

"Hello there, Master Dwarves," The elf had a cool tone. "Rarely do I see dwarves interested in my wares."

"Because you've never seen _me_," The brunette's eyes hungrily absorbed the array of bows hanging from the walls of the stall.

"A dwarf, wanting to take up archery?" The elf cocked a perfect eyebrow at Thorin.

_Urgh_, he thought. _Stupid tree shaggers and their perfect eyebrows_.

"These bows are of Elvish make," The elf made a graceful hand sweep to the bows behind him.

_Well duh,_ he thought.

"These come from the Woodland realms of Greenwood the Great, the place of the finest Elven archers. Each bow is made from the finest wood quality and each it tested for its lasting durability and enduring strength, making these bows a choice you _can't_ go wrong with."

_Oh yes I can!_

"Do you have certain sizes for…archers like me?" Frerin asked hopefully.

The elf examined at him. "You are strange for a dwarf. You have fine hair, a love of archery and you are tall."

"Because the Line of Durin _are_ taller than most dwarves," Thorin thrust his sleeves out, showing the insignia of his forefathers. He hoped he looked impressive.

Instead of being impressed, the elf threw back his mane of flowing brown hair and laughed. "Oh hoh! The Line of Durin is tainted if one of their own must so badly want to be an archer! And even going to an elven stallholder! It's a wonder King Thror has not disowned you yet!"

Thorin couldn't really blame the elf for laughing. They must've looked quite comical—the dwarf- elf with the blue puppy eyes, and his brother trying to look impressive. Nevertheless, he was sick of the pointy-eared prissies.

"Come on," he said in disgust, as he pulled an unwilling Frerin away from the laughing elf. "He's not worth our time."

"Thorin," Frerin asked him once they were well away from the elf's stall. "What if Father and Grandfather don't approve of my skill with a bow? Will they dishonour me?"

Thorin took his brother by the shoulders. "No they won't," he said fiercely. "I'll make sure of that. We can ask Master Thiznen and Lord Girion to help us too."

Frerin looked up, his nose in the air. Thorin took this as a sign of pride and took heart in it, but suddenly, he sniffed. He thought he was about to cry or something, but then Thorin smelt it as well.

"Pie," he said, wildly looking around.

"_Apple_ pie," Frerin added. "Freshly baked, by the smell of it,"

Apple pie was the favourite dessert of the Princes of Erebor. Every once in a while, Freya or Thrain would order the cooks to bake this recipe. That is, if they were good.

"Where do you think it is?" Thorin asked.

"I think it's coming from…" Frerin had the nose of a hound. "There!" He pointed down the street, his arm angled slightly right. They raced down the street, and turned right into a—

"Food market!" Frerin breathed.

"So many delicious scents," Thorin agreed. "Too many—how will we find the source of the apple pie?"

"Leave that to me," Frerin gently pushed Thorin aside and stepped in front of him. His nose was in the air, trying to catch the scent. He walked, his head turning here and there as Thorin stumbled along. They passed stalls filled to the brim with exotic fruits, spices, vegetables, meats and various delicious delicacies. More than once, Thorin was tempted to stop at the nearby stalls and beg for a sample of the food they were selling.

He could almost hear his father's reaction, he thought with a laugh. _The Line of Durin do not beg!_

"Here!" Frerin shouted excitedly. The dwarves managed to catch a glimpse through the sea of people of the stallholder, a plump lady with a rosy face.

_Why do all the dessert cooks look nice?_ Thorin wondered as they inched closer to the stall. They managed to squeeze to the front of the crowd (being so small) and got a good look at the apple pie.

"It's perfect," Frerin looked in awe at the sample of apple pie in front of him.

"Why thank you Master Dwarf," The woman said. "I am the best apple pie maker in Dale. Each sold pie is made on the day, so everything is fresh."

"Do you have samples?" Thorin licked his lips.

"Why I do," The woman brought forth a knife and cut two pieces of the pie, giving them to Thorin and Frerin. They ate it and savoured the sweetness in their mouths.

"It's good," Thorin mumbled through his mouthful.

"Too good," In a flash, Frerin's arm whipped out and the plate of apple pie appeared in his arms. He raced off, pushing his way out.

"Hey!" The woman shouted, and then glared at Thorin, all the rosiness and kindness from her face gone. The knife in her hand was looking unusually sharp to Thorin.

He had no choice but to run for it.

"You _idiot,_ Frerin!" Thorin shouted as he caught up to his brother. Behind them, he could hear the angry shouting of the pie maker.

"It was too good to resist!" The brunette shouted back, sneaking bits of pie into his mouth as he ran.

"And this is why Mother doesn't let us go out by ourselves!"

But Thorin had to admit, this was the most adventurous thing he had ever done. He'd been cooped up in the mountain for too long.

It was time to have some fun.

"Race you!" Thorin speeded past Frerin, snatching some pie off the plate as he did.

"That's cheating!" The dwarves sprinted through the food market, avoiding onlookers as they went.

"You imbeciles!" They laughed at the woman's angry voice.

"She's catching up!" Frerin looked over his shoulder.

"Not for much longer!" Thorin's leg whipped out, and some of the vegetable crates from the nearby stall came tumbling down.

"Now that's _two_ angry stallholders!" Frerin laughed, his mouth full of pie.

"I hope we don't get caugh—"

Thorin suddenly collided with Frerin, who had stopped. The plate of the half-eaten apple pie flew out his hands. But before it could hit the ground, someone caught it.

That someone was an angry female dwarf holding a dwarf baby and a plate.

"Well?" Freya growled. "What do you have to say for yourselves?"

Thorin and Frerin gulped simultaneously.

"…Searching for you all over Dale…worried sick…could've been killed or kidnapped…poor stallholders…"

The brothers were now rubbing their sore bottoms as Freya raged on at them. They had been spanked severely, and banned from apple pie and any further visits to Dale until the next royal inspection of the goods. Thrain and Thror had had a stern word with them beforehand, but the punishments were up to their mother. Thorin was extremely sorry, and she made them both promise they wouldn't wreak havoc in Dale again. Finally, she left to feed Dis.

"Well, that was tedious," Thorin winced as he sat down on his bed.

"I know, right?" Frerin stuck his tongue out, and then grinned. "Wait until Dis is older!"

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**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**


	4. Coming of Age

**Yeeesssssss prreeecccciooooussss thheeerrreee is fuel precious!**

**Enjoy!**

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_~Two months later~_

"Do you, Prince Thorin, swear to govern and rule the dwarves of Erebor, pertaining to the laws and customs of your Forefathers?"

"I do," Thorin replied, slightly fidgeting. He had been on his knees for the past few minutes of the ceremony, and he was starting to get rather restless.

Today was Thorin's 18th Birth day, and being an Heir of Durin, was now officially recognised as next in line to the throne of Erebor. Naturally, this called for nice clothing and a giant ceremony where he'd just repeat the same thing over and over.

Of course, it wasn't _just_ that. He was basically saying that he'd rule Erebor once Thrain and Thror were dead. And Mahal forbid that would happen until he was a lot older.

"Do you _swear_," Thror paused, adding emphasis on the last word. "To execute Law and Justice fairly—to show Mercy in your judgements but not falter from your true purpose?"

"I swear,"

"And do you swear, to preserve and protect Erebor's legacy and its people, even at the cost of your own life?"

"I swear." Thorin caught Frerin's eye, who gave him an encouraging smile.

"Stand up,"

Thorin rose, and looked into his Grandfather's eyes. He stood proud and tall, like a true prince.

"From this hour henceforth," Thror stated. "Thorin son of Thrain will now be truly recognised as an Heir of Durin, and now has the right to claim the throne of Erebor after Prince Thrain. May Mahal smile down upon you all, and bless your fortunes."

There was a thunder of applause from every dwarf that had gathered to see the ceremony. Balin clapped vigorously, as Dwalin whooped loudly, before being half-heartedly hushed by Fundin.

"I'm so proud of you, my eldest," Freya murmured, sweeping his hair over his ear.

"I couldn't have done it without you," Thorin confessed. They had stayed up late many nights, rehearsing the ceremony over and over.

As soon as the clapping died down, Thrain stepped forward.

"Now, to perform a less formal duty," he said, to the chuckles of the dwarves. "Prince Thorin is now of age, and today is the day of his Weapons Choosing. Please kneel down again,"

Thorin did as he was told. Frerin looked at him, his eyes clearly saying, _Sucker_.

_Just wait till _you're _18,_ Thorin stared back.

"Today marks a very important day for this dwarf," Thrain continued. "Not only does he receive his own weapon, but he receives his responsibility. The Weapons Choosing ceremony marks the Coming of Age for a dwarf, and gives them the right to attain the full responsibilities of an adult dwarf. Master Thiznen, please come forward,"

A dwarf with greying hair and red ceremonial armour came forth.

"Do you believe Prince Thorin is ready for his Weapons Choosing?"

"I do," Thiznen nodded. "He has shown exemplary work when handling weapons, and he is an obedient and diligent student. I am proud to have trained him."

"Then bring forth the weapon," A servant walked forward, carrying a large box draped in a dark blue silk robe. Thorin itched to rush over and find out its contents, but he abstained himself.

"It is customary that the father figure of the dwarf forges the weapon," Thrain said, as he rolled the silk off to reveal an ornately carved, _mithril_ box. He opened the box and drew out a dark leather sheath. "May I present…_Deathless_."

As if on cue, Thorin's hand curled around the visible handle of the weapon, and drew it from its sheath. It was a sword, ornately forged and beautifully wrought. Both sides of the sword were sharpened to a deadly point. His personal crest was carved above the cross-guard—the bar of metal that would protect his hand when sword-fighting.

"This sword is named after our ancestor, Durin the Deathless, the eldest of the Seven Fathers of Dwarves, named so for his longevity. May this sword serve you well."

"Thank you Father," Thorin said. "May your beard ever grow longer."

"I'm proud of you, son," Thrain muttered in his ear, before announcing. "And now, for my favourite part of the celebration—the party,"

The crowd of dwarves dispersed, chatting amongst each other excitedly as they made their way to the main hall, where the banquet would be held. Only three dwarves remained.

"Congratulations, Thorin," Balin smiled, patting him on the back. "How do you feel about your weapon?"

"It's great!" Thorin exclaimed, holding up the leather sheath. "It's so beautiful, and carefully crafted,"

"You'll have no problem chopping heads off with that beauty," Dwalin agreed. "I can't _wait_ for my Weapons Choosing,"

"Nor can I!" Frerin bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet.

"Can't wait for your own bow and quiver, can't you?" Dwalin teased lightly. Ever since the day Frerin nearly impaled Dwalin's hand onto one of the training posts, the bulky dwarf had developed a new respect for the cheeky brunette, and they became fast friends.

"C'mon," Thorin grinned. "Let's go join the others at the banquet."

The main hall was the largest area in Erebor. Mainly banquets and feasts were held there, as usually, all the dwarves of Erebor were invited. The day before, large stone tables and chairs were disappearing in and out of the huge double doors, and the royal cooks and their servants were rushing around, preparing for his Weapons Choosing and Heir Recognition Day. When the foursome arrived, the dwarves were already roaring with laughter as they threw food around the place.

"Wow," Frerin dodged a piece of bread sailing through the air. "This is _impressive_."

"I know, "Like Frerin, this was also Thorin's first "whole Erebor celebration and banquet". He had been to smaller banquets with only his relatives, but it was nothing compared to the sight in front of him now.

"One good thing about coming of age," Balin said. "Is that you can drink alcohol now,"

"Why at such a young age?" Frerin scratched his head, which jangled with the many dark green beads their Mother had forcibly braided into his hair.

"Humans start drinking around that age," Dwalin shrugged. "Why can't we?"

"Yeah, but they mature faster,"

"But they're stupider."

As Dwalin and Frerin bickered good-naturedly, Balin decided to take Thorin to sample the ale.

"Try a bit at first," The older dwarf handed him the large wooden mug, which was half full. "Can't really explain the taste,"

Thorin tentatively took a small sip, and then chugged it all down.

"Take it easy," Balin warned.

"Wow, this stuff is _great!_" Thorin banged the mug down hard onto the table. "More please!"

"That's my boy!" Thrain called from the head of the table. Freya smacked him, the hint of a smile on her lips. Dis was not present at the celebration, as she was too young.

"I wouldn't take too much, Thorin," Balin took the mug and began refilling it from one of the nearby barrels. "If you drink too much, you become drunk."

"Yeah, yeah," Thorin waved his statement off as he received the full mug. "I'll be careful," He gulped the ale down and began to refill it again. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"Everything," Balin muttered as Thorin drank.

"MORE!" Thorin slammed the mug down with all his might, just inches from Dwalin's hand.

"I'm not giving you anymore," Balin crossed his arms. "If you want some, go get it yourself,"

"And that I shall!" Thorin fumbled with the tap for a few seconds, but managed to pour the ale into the mug. "Why is everything slightly blurry?"

Balin sighed exasperatedly.

"This is the funniest thing I have had the fortune to witness," Frerin commented, as he ate a whole apple pie. Freya had lifted the ban on the dessert, and had ordered the cooks to bake it for the celebration.

_Lots of it_.

"How many has he had?" Dwalin asked.

"Seven," Balin said grimly. "He's strong—on my first time, I think I started becoming very philosophical on my third."

"It's already starting to affect him," Frerin said. "I wonder what kind of drunk he'll be."

"Come on, my friends," Thorin tried to wrap his arm around Frerin, but stumbled. "Let's drink and be merry!"

"Happy drunk, maybe?" Dwalin suggested.

"There are lights in your hair, Frerin," Thorin squinted at the emerald beads. "Why is that?"

"Ummm…they're fairies."

"Fairies!?" Thorin threw his head back and laughed. "Don't be ridiculous! That's so funny!"

"Happy drunk," Balin and Dwalin confirmed at the same time.

"Haha, Balin, your beard looks funny. And why is there a spike on your head Dwalin?" He laughed again. His friends were so absurd sometimes.

"Okay, that's it," Someone was tugging the mug out of his hands.

"No," he wailed, trying to get it back. "I'm thirsty,"

"Have some water," Balin proceeded to empty the contents of the mug.

"But I don' wan' wa'er," His voice sounded funny. Why was that?

"It's been a long night," Someone took him firmly by the arm. "It's time you went to bed."

"Bed?" Thorin's head felt light, as if he was in the clouds. "I want to fly away, like a bird!"

"And you will," Thorin couldn't discern who was speaking anymore. His vision was getting blurrier and blurrier. "Fly high away."

And Thorin couldn't remember what followed.

* * *

**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**

**For the speech thingy, that was taken from an oath the English monarch have to say before they become the ruler. I just tweaked it a bit.**

**About the drunk scene, I took the information from various Wikianswer responses, and a few articles :)**


	5. Hangover

**HAH! A REVIEW! *dances***

**Warning: Coarse language**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Thorin was confused to why he woke up in his bed the next morning, because the last thing he could remember was Frerin's blurry face. And then suddenly, it hit him.

"ARGH!" he groaned, clutching his head. It felt like a thousand knives were slowly being inserted into his brain. "By Mahal stop the pain!"

The door opened, and Frerin's head popped through the crack.

"Hello brother," He grinned devilishly. "Remember much from last night?"

"Bloody hell, what happened?" He suddenly realised that he was still in his clothes from last night.

"You got drunk," Frerin shrugged. "_After_ Balin warned you not to—we carried you home, you know?"

"Mahal, I acted like a fool, didn't I?" Thorin sat up, rubbing his head. He felt unusually tired, as if he hadn't slept at all.

"Yep," Frerin went over to the stone window and yanked the silk curtains open.

"ACK!" Thorin threw his arms in front of his eyes, but realised it was better to dive back into his blankets. 'Why is it so bright!?"

"I knew it," Frerin said softly under his breath. "Okay, HOW ABOUT THIS!?"

"Why so loud!?" Thorin moaned miserably from underneath the covers.

"It's what the Men call a 'hang-over'." Thorin heard footsteps and the creak of his bedroom door as Balin's voice floated in. Heavier footsteps told him that Dwalin was behind him. "I _told_ you not to drink so much ale, cousin,"

"But I didn't know _this_ would happen," Thorin whimpered.

"Wow Thorin," Dwalin chuckled. "I have not heard you whimper since five years ago when I threw a ball into your privates,"

"By the way, you'll need this," There was a metal clank and a thud where Balin had placed an object next to his bed. As if on cue, Thorin sprang out of the blankets and vomited on the object, missing Balin by inches.

Good thing the dwarf had given him a bucket.

"So tell me, what was I like last night?" Thorin sipped from a mug of water as he shifted in his blankets. After he'd vomited, Balin had immediately rushed off to the kitchen for a mug of water, with a "Stay put," to Thorin before he'd left. Since the remaining dwarves weren't too eager to clean up the contents of Thorin's stomach, Frerin called a servant, who wasn't too happy to do the job either. Dwalin had asked another servant to bring chairs, which were currently placed around Thorin's bed—a dwarf lounging in each one.

"You were what they called the 'Happy Drunk'," Balin had another bucket behind him just in case Thorin decided to spew again. "Were you experiencing high levels of euphoria?"

"Uh huh," Thorin took another gulp. "Sadly, this Erebor-sized headache chases it all away."

"Being drunk actually sounds fun," Frerin mused. "Not the morning after being drunk, but…the feeling, you know?"

"I wish there was a way of experiencing high levels of happiness without suffering afterwards," Dwalin sighed.

"Don't you dare go searching for something like that," Balin said sharply.

"Last night was a bit of a haze for me," Thorin held out his empty mug for Frerin to fill. "Didn't you say there were fairies in your hair?"

"Yep," The brunette grinned.

"And I insulted your beard," Thorin face-palmed. "And made fun of your hair,"

"It's alright, Thorin," Balin shrugged. "I've seen worse."

"I remember your Weapons Choosing," Dwalin contemplated. "Didn't you start dancing on the table as you spouted questions about life?"

Balin blushed a deeper red than his tunic.

There was a knock on Thorin's door. Four pairs of eyes turned to stare as Thror slowly entered, a wooden bowl in his hands.

"Am I…interrupting something?" he asked awkwardly.

"No, come in Grandfather," Thorin said enthusiastically. "What brings you here?"

"Well, I know you drank a lot last night," Thror started. "So I requested Master Nar to make a herb remedy I used often when I was younger."

Master Nar was the royal healer of Erebor. He had decided to become a healer after he'd seen his brother die in his arms, cut down by an orc. Many dwarves would come to him for his famous herbal medicines. He was a dwarf with white hair and a very lined face.

"Thanks," Thorin took the bowl, and then looked back at Thror. "What am I meant to do with it?"

"Pour it into your drink," Thror replied calmly, ignoring the titters of Frerin, Dwalin and Balin. "It should alleviate the pains of your headache."

"Right," He proceeded to dump the contents of the bowl into the jug of water on his bedside table.

"How many did you have, by the way?" Thror asked as Thorin took a sip of the new concoction. He began gagging on the bitter taste.

"Aye, here's the bucket," Balin immediately shoved the bucket towards him.

"No need," Thorin gasped as he looked expectantly at Frerin, as he took another sip. The headache had lessened in pain already.

"He had around seven, before we had to put him to bed," his brother said.

Thror roared with laughter. "You're a strong one, laddie!"

"I don't think I'll be downing any more ale for a long time," Thorin mumbled into his mug.

"Don't worry," His Grandfather clapped him on the back. "You'll soon be able to tolerate larger quantities as you get older. I can drink a lot now—a lot more than I could a decade ago. Well," Thror began walking out of the small bedroom. "Good to see you lads."

"Bye!" The foursome waved as he left, closing the door behind him.

"So," Frerin leaned back on his chair. "What now?"

"I can all tell you a story about the first night Balin got really drunk," Dwalin suggested.

"Please do!" Thorin and Frerin leaned forward eagerly, as Balin covered his hands with his face.

* * *

**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**

**To those who are slightly confused to how dwarves age in my story, well, I have an explanation. Dwarves do age at the same maturity as humans do, but I believe they retain their looks for longer, and that their outward appearance ages really slowly. The dwarves are like dogs- they grow up, but remain playful and kinda childish. Long story short, they age physically and mentally at the same rate as humans, until they reach puberty (18 years of age), in which they age around three times as slower physically and mentally. Hope that helped :) **


	6. Council Meetings

**MORE REVIEWS AND FOLLOWERS! (hence, more dancing and celebrating)**

**Also, I'm seeing DoS for the third time. Just saying ;P**

**If anyone needs clarification about the aging of dwarves, go to chapter five and scroll down to the end of the chapter :) **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Grrr," Thorin growled as Frerin braided parts of his hair, his tongue slightly sticking out in concentration. "Why is it that _I_ have to go to these meetings?"

"Because you'll have to learn the proper etiquette of council meetings," Frerin said wisely. Rarely did he ever have a moment of wisdom and seriousness. "Being an adult now and formally recognised as an Heir, the other representatives will be expecting you to be there. It's good training for when you become King under the Mountain."

This morning, Thorin had found out that he'd be attending the Erebor council meetings that were hosted every three months. He had almost pulled his hair out in frustration, demanding the reason why he wasn't warned of this earlier.

"Because you were still recovering from that hangover," Thrain said, as if it was an acceptable answer.

"I recovered from that hang-over over a week ago!" Thorin had shouted back.

Since Freya and his Father and Grandfather were too busy preparing for the meeting, Thorin had enlisted the help of his little brother, who was more than happy to assist. The nimble-fingered archer was very skilled at doing braids and elaborate dwarven hairstyles.

"Who is this meeting between anyway?" Thorin grumbled.

"Between the Dwarf Kingdoms," Frerin replied. "Honestly, it's as if you don't pay attention to Master Foln!"

"I do," he retorted. "I just don't apply that knowledge to my daily life!"

The brunette sighed, as he slipped a sapphire bead onto the end of the finished braid. "You will have to, when you become King under the Mountain."

"That won't happen for at least a few more decades," Thorin glumly stared at himself in the mirror. He did look rather regal, he thought to himself. "I'm only _18,_ for Mahal's sake."

"I bet you'll still need me to do your braids," Frerin teased, stepping back from his handiwork. "There, you're done."

"I hope this meeting goes well," Thorin stood up from his wooden chair.

"You only have to sit there and pretend to listen," Frerin shrugged. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"Everything," Thorin stalked out of his brother's room

"Don't forget to tell Girion about the archery session!"

"…There has been talk of the reclaiming of _Ered Mithrin_," One of the dwarves said. "Some believe the cold-drakes of the north have either moved on, or died out, as they have not been heard of for many a decade."

_Only have to sit there and pretend to listen,_ Thorin scathingly thought. _You're not in the council meeting, Frerin. How would _you_ know?_

Thorin had been sitting in the council for a very long time, Mahal knew for how long exactly. The talk was mainly about boring dwarf politics that Thorin struggled to understand. Heck, he couldn't even remember the name of the representatives. The only dwarves he knew were his Father, Grandfather, Mother, Master Thiznen, Fundin (who was the royal advisor), Farin, Groin, Gror and Nain of the Iron Hills, and of course, Lord Girion.

Mainly kin, of course.

"I do not believe we should march on the mountains," Thror slammed his fist down onto the stone table. "Drakes can live for thousands of years—and if the worms had left _Ered Mithrin_, surely we would've heard about it?"

Drawing from his knowledge and hours studying with Master Foln, Thorin did have some idea of what they were talking about. Before his Father was even born, the dwarves of Erebor lived in _Ered Mithrin_, the Grey Mountains. Then a couple of the cold drakes found out about the precious metals and gems hewn from the mountains, and decided to just take it. Long story short, Thror's brother and father were killed in the main hall, and the dwarves escaped and colonised Erebor instead. Thorin could understand his Grandfather's decision not to take the mountains back.

"But _Ered Mithrin_ is rich in ores," The dwarf pressed, slowly rising out his seat. He was a sneaky character with beady eyes and a very large nose, even for dwarven standards. "If we were to reclaim it—"

"Cold drakes are deadly, even without the fire-breath of their kin," Nain argued. "Countless lives were taken that day,"

"And you dwarves are already wealthy," Girion added. "Surely you must have plenty of metals and jewels already!"

"You know nothing of the concerns of dwarves, _Lord Girion,_" the dwarf sneered back. "Who invited this _Man_ to this meeting anyway?"

"_I _did," Thror growled, looking very angry. Thrain and Freya had troubled expressions on their faces. "How _dare_ you insult my guest and one of Erebor's most trusted allies?"

_By Mahal,_ Thorin thought with disgust as they argued. _If this happens at every council meeting, how has Grandfather, Father and Mother survived?_

"Anyway," Freya interrupted, sweeping an icy glance over the bickering dwarves. "Are we here to discuss the plight of _Ered Mithrin,_ or Lord Girion's position on the council, which has been earned many times over?"

_Nobody messes with Mother,_ Thorin thought gleefully as the dwarf sat down again.

"So," Master Thiznen cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Discussing _Ered Mithrin_—we dwarves are already few in number. If I were to rally all the dwarves of the Seven Kingdoms and march on the Grey Mountains, we would be marching to our deaths."

"Tis true," Gror added. "I too, was there when the col drakes slain Dain and Fror," He choked on the last name. "I too, was there when death and destruction was dealt that day."

"Let us vote on the matter," Freya suggested. "Raise your hands if you think we should _not_ reclaim _Ered Mithrin_?"

One by one, the dwarves raised their hands. Thrain gave him a quizzical look as he did. Just realising what it meant, Thorin quickly raised his own hand. Not that he didn't agree—he just wasn't _paying attention_. Soon, the only dwarves without their hands up were the beady-eyed dwarf and the dwarf sitting opposite him.

"It is settled then," Thror boomed. "We will not speak of this matter again unless absolutely necessary. And that concludes our meeting."

The dwarves and Girion began standing up. Thorin knew that the visiting representatives were allowed to stay for a short moment before going back to their kingdoms. He casually walked up to Girion, but another dwarf blocked his way.

"Thorin!" It was Gror. "Congratulations on your Coming of Age and Weapons Choosing ceremony!"

"Thank you Uncle," Thorin thanked hastily. It wasn't that he didn't like his uncle; it was that he was sort of in a hurry to get to Girion.

"I'm sorry I couldn't go to the Birth day celebration last week," he continued. "I was having a bit of trouble over at the Iron Hills."

"Yes," Thorin agreed impatiently.

Gror slapped him on the back. "You sound in a hurry, little one! Don't let me get in your way!"

_I'm not little!_ Thorin thought indignantly as he finally said goodbye, and hurried over to the waiting Girion.

"Family trouble?" Girion laughed. "Don't you hate it when a relative holds you up?"

"Yeah!" Thorin agreed, as they walked out of the council hall together. "Do you know where the Training Hollow is?"

"I have a vague idea," Girion nodded. "From when your Grandfather took me on a tour around Erebor. I'll let you lead the way, though."

They ambled through the halls of Erebor, with Thorin pointing out some of his favourite places as he engaged the man in conversation.

"Will your brother be there already?" he asked as they made their way down to the hollow.

"Of course," Thorin nodded. "He's been there since when the meeting started."

They found Frerin hacking ferociously at a dummy when they arrived.

"What has that dummy ever done to you?" Thorin called out jokingly. "The dummy is too easy an opponent!"

"That is true," Girion added. "As they cannot move, or fight back."

"Thorin!" Frerin lowered his sword, as he acknowledged Girion with a tip of his head. "Lord Girion."

"A pleasure, Prince Frerin," Girion ran his hands over one of the straw targets. "Where is your bow?"

"I'll go get it," Frerin raced off. A few seconds later, he was back, a bow in his hands and an arm guard strapped to his right arm. A quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder.

"These are the training bows," Frerin showed his bow to Girion, who took it and examined it. "So they're a bit worn out and not as good as a personal bow."

"It's in good condition," Girion nodded, as he handed it back. "Now, show me what you can do—fire an arrow into the centre of the target.

Slowly, Frerin reached for an arrow, and notched it into his bow. Pulling back, he let go and it sailed into the bullseye.

"Very good," he nodded. "Fire two more in rapid succession."

In a flash, two more arrows were fired, both hitting the bullseye again.

Suddenly, Girion grabbed a piece of cloth from his pocket and threw it up above his head. Without batting an eye, Frerin shot an arrow towards it, pinning it to the tree behind Girion.

"Skilful," Girion looked impressed. Thorin's heart swelled with pride for his brother, who was panting slightly. "Your stance will improve over time, but your accuracy is excellent. How long do you train each week?"

"An hour every day, as of a few months ago,"

"Very good," Girion began pacing the hollow. "You have minimal mistakes with your shooting; however, I can offer a few techniques that will smooth out those mistakes."

And so for about 15 minutes, Girion instructed Frerin on many things. His bow grip, his stance, and when he shot, suggested some ideas. When they were done, Frerin and Thorin escorted him out.

"I can see that you'll be a fine archer, Frerin," Girion complimented as he stepped out of the Main Gate. "I shall see you both in three months' time."

"Bye!" They waved vigorously as Girion made his way back to Dale.

"Well," Frerin commented as the man disappeared. "That was…tedious."

"That seems to be your new favourite word!" Thorin pulled his brother into a tight hug as he ruffled the brown silky hair.

* * *

**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**


	7. Fight

**Seeing my old school friends tomorrow!**

**Warning: Violence (but not very graphic)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Thorin spun around in a whirl of metal and navy cloth as he met his attacker head on. Their swords clanged, sparks flying out as the metal grinded. He grunted, adding pressure onto his opponent. The green clad warrior threw him off and he regained his footing, panting heavily.

"My, my, you have been training," Thorin rushed up for another assault.

"What's with all these ridiculous stereotypes?" Frerin blocked him as he aimed a swipe at Thorin's ribs. "A dwarf using a bow doesn't mean he can't use a sword. Who made this up anyway?"

"No one," He parried the fatal blow as he began attacking with a series of blows near the torso and legs. "It's just that elves are prissy, with their dainty little bows shooting dainty little arrows away from the actual battle—"

"See? Another ridiculous stereotype—a dwarf using a bow just _has_ to be some spawn of an elf."

"Yeah," They sparred for a few more seconds, until a well-placed blow sent Frerin's sword spinning out his hand. Thorin pointed _Deathless_ at his throat, the blade just touching his brother's smooth chin.

"Yield," he commanded.

"Looking so high and mighty with your sword, aren't you?" Frerin smirked. "How is _Deathless_ faring you, by the way?"

"Marvellously," Thorin took pride in his new sword. Each day, he made sure it was in _top_ condition—sharpening it until the blade could rip through armour easily, and polishing it until it shone like the stars glowing above Erebor at night. It sat on a metal rack in his room that Thrain had specially made.

Without warning, Frerin dived and suddenly seized Thorin's legs. Out of surprise, he dropped the sword as his legs buckled underneath him.

"That's cheating!" he yelled as they wrestled in the sand. Some of the other dwarves had stopped to see what the commotion was about. They chuckled as they saw the Princes roll around in the sand, and continued training.

"I'm pretty sure some orc's going to do this to you in battle one day," Frerin laughed as he kneeled on top of him. "The only difference is that I don't bite people."

"You seem feral enough!" Thorin shoved him over so that he landed on the ground. Then he jumped on top of the brunette.

"Oof!" Frerin gasped as all the air was suddenly squashed out of his lungs. "That's mean!"

"Yield!" Thorin laughed at the sight of Frerin underneath him, sprawled out helplessly on the ground.

"I yield," He got off him, as the brunette got to his feet, shaking the sand out of his leaf coloured clothing and hair as he spat out a loose strand of hair.

"C'mon," Thorin ruffled Frerin's hair—an unbreakable habit—and they went back up to Erebor, _Deathless _in its dark leather sheath on Thorin's belt.

It was true that there weren't many dwarf women. Most chose to delve in their craft rather than marry. Then there was the problem of loving dwarves that were already married. Being stubborn, they would marry no other. This led to the fact that there weren't many dwarf children around either. So when dwarves _did_ marry, they had as many children as they could.

Thorin was lucky to have Frerin and Dis. Otherwise, he would've died of boredom a long time ago. However, it didn't mean he had other friends.

"Hey! Thorin!" A dwarf shouted. It was Loin, the dwarf that Thorin had beaten in an arm wrestle. "Wanna hang out?"

"Sure," Thorin came over, Frerin following hesitantly. The only dwarves that _really_ got along with the archer were Dwalin and Balin.

"So, what have you been up to?" Another dwarf asked. It was Tosur, a dwarf that regularly trained alongside Thorin, as he was the son of Master Thiznen. He was sharpening a dagger as he spoke.

"I've just been training with Frerin," Thorin said proudly, bringing his brother forward. "He's _really_ good with a sword,"

"Oh yeah, I've seen you training," Tosur nodded. "You also train with a bow, right?"

"A bow?" Loin's face twisted cruelly. "Who in their right mind would use a _bow_?"

"Elves," Hegnar spat. He hung around Loin a lot. "And Elves aren't in their right mind, are they?"

"We've heard the rumours," Loin stepped past Thorin and jabbed a finger into Frerin's chest. "Some are saying you're some kind of elf-bastard Lady Freya took pity on." At that statement, Tosur averted his gaze and stared at the floor.

Thorin grabbed Loin's shoulder and jerked him back. The insult had pierced Frerin's heart—his young, innocent heart that Thorin so badly wanted to protect.

"Say that again," Thorin snarled. "And you'll be answering to me,"

"Stay out of this, Thorin," Loin hissed. "You can see it too, can't you? Look, he doesn't even have a beard!"

This was true. Frerin's chin was smooth and naked. For a dwarf of 14, he should've had some stubble, but he had nothing. Even Thorin had a short, growing beard.

"That does not prove he is an elf!" He shoved Loin back. "Keep your foul words to yourself."

"I can see it in your eyes, _Prince Thorin,_" Another dwarf moved to stand next to Loin. It was Glegan. "It's such a shame that you can't admit to your brother that he is an _undersized, weak, cowardly elf-ling_."

Each word hit Frerin like a dagger. Though his face was expressionless, Thorin could tell he was hiding the hurt beneath him.

"Frerin," he muttered in his brother's ear. "You are not undersized, nor are you weak or cowardly. They want a _reaction_."

"You'll never be a _true dwarf_," Loin grinned. "Not with your little _bow_ and your naked chin. _Never!_"

Thorin felt Frerin's hurt stab at his heart. He felt as if it was making him bleed from the inside. Their bond as brothers was very strong.

_Strong enough to hurt anyone who would cause harm to one of them_.

With a roar, Thorin launched himself onto Loin and bowled him over. He began punching him rapidly, aiming at every inch of his body as Loin uselessly flailed his hands. He wanted to hurt him—make him feel the hurt that Frerin felt.

"Get off him!" Hegnar shrieked, punching his neck. Thorin kicked him in the thigh.

"You!" he breathed. "You caused him pain too!" He began fighting both dwarves, gleefully anticipating the moments when Hegnar or Loin groaned from the pain.

_There_, he thought savagely. _Now you know how Frerin feels, don't you?_

"DON'T YOU!" he shouted at them. Glegan had also joined the fight, and was now aiming blows at Thorin's back.

Suddenly, a pair of hands pulled him off the struggling dwarves. Hegnar had a black eye and several bruises on his face, and Loin had a broken nose, as well as a few bruises. Glegan was unharmed, as Thorin wasn't aiming for him.

"Get off me!" Thorin shouted at Dwalin, who were restraining him. "I wanna make 'em pay…for what they did…I just wanna make them _hurt—_"

"And they have!" Dwalin shouted back. Tosur and Balin were holding Hegnar and Loin back. When they let go, they fled.

"Thorin!" Frerin stumbled up to him and hugged him. That was all that mattered in the world at the moment—Frerin. "You're hurt."

Thorin glanced down at his broken and bloodied knuckles, not really registering the pain. There were probably a few bruises on his face, he thought numbly. What he did register was that tears were streaking down his face.

He buried his face into Frerin's tunic and sobbed.

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**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**

**This is my first time writing angst and whatnot, so sorry for the lack of it in this chapter :P**


	8. Brother

**I swear...these chapters are becoming shorter and shorter...no one has a problem with that, right?**

**Enjoy!**

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_News spread through Erebor like wildfire—the news that Prince Thorin had beaten up two dwarves almost senseless, and sent the third one running for his life. _

_And all for the sake of his pathetic brother, Prince Frerin_.

"It's funny how they add that last bit," Frerin commented, disrupting Balin's words. "Though Thorin's the real hero, they want to give a bit of character to the victim as well." However joking Frerin sounded, Thorin could detect the slightest hint of sadness in his tone.

It had been a few weeks since Thorin beat up Hegnar and Loin, and sent Glegan scurrying back to his mother. When they came back to Freya, she was shocked at Thorin's dishevelled appearance, with his messy braids, bruised face and his broken, bloodied knuckles.

"Get Master Nar," she had snapped to the nearest servant. And as he bandaged up his knuckles, she had demanded to hear the whole story. She was slightly angry at them both when Thorin finished, but praised him for his bravery and willing to protect his younger brother.

Then she disappeared in a swirl of red and gold to tell Thrain and Thror.

The next time Thorin saw Hegnar and Loin, they were glaring balefully from underneath the large, parchment coloured bandages that were wrapped partially around their heads. Every time he caught a glimpse of Glegan, he mysteriously vanished almost the second he saw him.

"Like all stories, this one has been change over and over, with some details twisted, added in or left out." Tosur said, whittling some wood. Since the incident, he and Thorin had become extremely good friends, and he hung out with him, Frerin, Dwalin and Balin. "For example, I know a version where _weapons_ were actually unsheathed."

"True," Dwalin nodded. "I heard a version that you took out your sword and stuck it up Hegnar's—"

"Let's not go into detail," Thorin interrupted hastily.

"Have any of you actually _tried_ to correct the story yet?" Frerin asked, amused.

"Nope," the trio said in unison.

Thorin buried his face in his hands. "Now they're going to think I'm some kind of molester."

"No they won't," Frerin scoffed. "How?"

"Because it involves a _sword_," Dwalin pointed out.

Balin blocked his ears. "You are dirty-minded, brother!"

"There," Frerin stepped back from his handiwork. "You look _grand_."

"I still can't believe you have to have someone _still_ do your braids, Thorin," Tosur said in disbelief, as Thorin stood up and admired his hair.

"Wonderful work as usual, Frerin," Thorin opened the bedroom door. "Let's go."

There was another hall that was used for celebrations in Erebor. Thorin called it, 'The Family Hall', as it was used for family occasions only.

This current occasion they were celebrating, just so happened to be Frerin's 15th Birth day.

"Happy Birth day, dear boy," Thrain shouted as they entered the hall.

"Who's this?" Thror pointed at Tosur, who inched backwards slightly. "Is he related to us?"

"Yeah, he's a…" Thorin looked at him.

"Some kind of fourth cousin three times removed on Lady Freya's side," Tosur finished quickly. Since everyone was basically related in some kind of way in Erebor, it didn't matter what he said, no matter how far from the truth it sounded.

"Seems legitimate for me!" Thrain shouted as he drank a large mug of ale.

"Here comes the Birth day dwarf!" Freya rushed over to Frerin and hugged him, Dis tottering alongside her.

"Oof, Mother! You're embarrassing me!" he yelled in her grip. She released him, and swept a gaze over the other dwarves.

"And are these the friends you've invited?" They nodded vigorously.

"Well then, everything seems to be in order," His mother took Dis's hand and gave it to Thorin. "I expect you to look after your sister tonight, okay?"

He took the hand grudgingly. "Of course, Mother,"

"Good," She smiled, and went to join Thrain.

"So is this your sister?" Tosur asked gently, a smile on his face. Immediately, Dis ducked behind Thorin's robes.

"Sorry, she's a bit shy," He apologised, as he tried to coax her out again. "Dis, don't be scared. This is one of my friends."

Slowly, she came out again. Her large blue eyes fixed on Tosur's hazel gaze.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"She's so cute!" Frerin muttered to Dwalin.

"Hi, Dis," Tosur said softly. "Are you having fun?"

She nodded.

"Do you like toys?"

Another nod.

"Well, I have a toy, in my pocket here," To Thorin's surprise, Tosur kneeled down, and showed the side pocket on his dark orange robes. "Do you want to see what it is?"

At Thorin's gentle nudge, she reached her chubby hand into the pocket and felt around. Thorin tried to exchange a quizzical look with Tosur, but his eyes were fixed on the dwarf lass.

With an abrupt squeak of delight, she withdrew a wooden pony. It was carved mid trot, giving it a sense of movement and lifelike-ness.

"Say thank you," Thorin said, as Dis hugged the new toy close to her chest.

"Thank you," she said shyly.

_Thanks, _he gazed at Tosur.

_You're welcome,_ he gazed back.

"I thought it was meant to be _my_ birthday," Frerin joked, picking Dis up. "Naughty girl!" He began tickling her, smiling as she wriggled and squealed with laughter.

"She's pulled you in," Thorin teased. "You're like the fish caught in her net,"

"Oh, shut up," Tosur shoved him.

"I was _joking_," Thorin looked fondly over at his younger siblings. "Dis can charm anyone—you're not the first dwarf to fall for it."

There was a pause, as they watched Frerin and Dis interact.

"You love your siblings, don't you?" Tosur asked unexpectedly. Thorin stared at him in surprise. He found the question rather odd.

"Yes, why?"

"Just the way you look at them," He shrugged. "And what you did for Frerin a few weeks back,"

"It's called 'brotherly love'," Thorin grunted.

"Oh, I've never experienced that before," Tosur contemplated.

"Duh, cause you don't have a brother," Thorin knew that much about Tosur's family.

"No, I have a sister—her name's Belbar."

_That's…awkward,_ he thought.

"'Sisterly love'?" he suggested brightly.

"Nope—we avoid each other like dwarves avoid elves."

And so they talked for the rest of the night about siblings.

Soon, the celebration came to a halt, and Freya quickly ushered them off to their rooms. Dis had already fallen asleep a few hours before, nestled up in her Mother's arms.

"What a celebration," Frerin yawned as they made their way to their bedrooms. Dwalin, Balin and Tosur had already left, as they lived in different parts of Erebor.

"By the way," Just as they reached Frerin's door, Thorin pulled something out of his pocket, clenched tightly in his fist.

"You serious?" Frerin yawned again. "You could've done it while we were walking, to save time you know?"

"Shut up, you idiot. It's your Birth day present."

"Oh," Frerin suddenly perked up. "What is it?"

Thorin grinned, and opened his palm.

There, in the middle of his hand, was a hair bead.

"Wow," Frerin tentatively picked it up, and inspected it in the light of a nearby torch stand.

"_Nadad,_" he murmured, reading the inscription on the bead. He looked back at Thorin. "How in Mahal's name did you craft this?"

"Took me a couple of months," Thorin said proudly. Each day, he had gone to the forges and painstakingly carved the bead.

"That's not the best bit though," He winked, as he pushed the hair back behind his ear to reveal a hidden braid he had braided quickly, out of sight of Frerin.

"Is that…?"

"The pair to the bead in your hands, yes. Except my one has my crest on it, whereas your bead has your crest."

Frerin placed the bead carefully in his pocket, and pulled Thorin into a hug. "Thank you, _Nadad._"

They pressed their foreheads together gently, as they squeezed together in a brotherly embrace.

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**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**

**FYI, _Nadad_ means 'brother', according to the Dwarrow Scholar. They have a whole dictionary of Khuzdul words, if anyone wants to check that out ;)**


	9. Treasure

**Enjoy!**

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"This is actually a suicide mission," Tosur hissed, as the five of them ducked behind a wall. "Whose idea was this anyway?"

"Mine," Thorin and Frerin whispered simultaneously.

Balin rolled his eyes. "Trust the Durin boys to get us into trouble!"

_Technically, you and Dwalin _are_ Durin boys,_ Thorin thought.

"But we won't be," Frerin grinned. "Not this time, anyway,"

"That's what you said all those other times ago," Dwalin growled.

"I'm sorry, so you've done this before?" Tosur inquired.

Balin nodded. "And we've only succeeded once or twice."

"Shhh! He's coming out!" Thorin hushed. A red-faced dwarf bustled past them, not noticing the dwarrows crouching in the shadows.

"We could've been caught then," Dwalin hissed. "You're right—this would've been too dangerous for Dis,"

"Quiet!" Thorin held his hand up. Another dwarf hurried by, hitching up his cream robes. "Now!"

At once, they sprang into action. Sidling along the walls, they headed to the lone door set in the stone.

"Why are we doing this again?" Balin whispered.

"Because rarely this place is ever emptied," Frerin whispered back. "This is a golden opportunity we should seize!"

Thorin got to the door first. With a grunt, he pulled it open and silently motioned to the others to go in. As Dwalin, the last dwarf, creeped in, he cautiously looked around before jumping into the room and silently closing the door behind him.

"Wow," Tosur stared at the sight in front of him. He had never been here before. "That's impressive,"

"Right you are," Frerin held up an arm and swept it around. "Welcome to…the Royal Kitchens."

The Royal Kitchens was more of a hall than a room. If you ever came on a busy day, you would be pushed left and right as dwarves scurried past, cooking the meals for the celebration coming up. The walls were lined with shelves occupied with various ingredients and spices contained in glass jars. There was a large spit in the centre of the kitchen, which was turned by the kitchen dog, Toak. He would walk around as it slowly turned, however, he could not go further than five metres from the spit, as a rope secured him. It was a particularly thick rope, as he was a very large dog.

Neither Toak, nor most of the cooks were there, however. A stroke of luck early during the day had emptied the kitchens of any creature. Thorin had seen the dwarves race out, Toak's rope in the hands of Master Tybag, the Main Cook, and the boss of the kitchen.

"Come one, let's go search for the cookies," Thorin commanded. They began combing through the shelves of jars, trying to find them. Since Master Tybag knew that the young dwarrows would _always_ come to steal over and over again (even after they got spanked for stealing the cookies) he would hide the cookie jar in a different place each time. It was slightly frustrating and time consuming, but very satisfying when they found them.

Suddenly, they heard an almighty crash. Thorin turned to see Tosur guiltily staring at them. He had knocked over a frying pan when he reached for a jar. Even Thorin could see, from a distance, that the jar Tosur was reaching for had pickles in it.

"Sorry," he said.

"Be careful next time," Thorin scolded. But suddenly, they heard shouting.

"Mahal help us," Dwalin's eyes were wild.

"In here!" Thorin swiftly shoved them into the shadows beneath a nearby table. They heard footsteps, and saw large, leather boots.

"Who's there?" The dwarf called out suspiciously. Thorin breathed a sigh of relief—this indicated that the dwarf was recently apprenticed to one of the senior cooks, and that he didn't know about Thorin and his friends stealing, since they hadn't nicked anything for a few months. All the cooks were warned about them, but this dwarf certainly wasn't.

He held his breath as the dwarf picked up the frying pan, and placed it back on the stone bench where it used to be. He let out a sigh as the dwarf left the kitchens, closing the door behind him.

"Close call," Dwalin commented. "Hope that doesn't happen again,"

They crept out of the table and continued raiding the shelves. Once or twice, the occasional bang was heard (each time, Thorin had sent a quick glare Tosur's way) but other than that, they raided in peace. There were a few moments when Thorin's heart leapt with excitement when he reached for a jar, but then it'd turn out to be mushrooms or some kind of vegetable.

"Found it!" Came Frerin's triumphant cry. Thorin abandoned whatever jar he was holding (it had a reddish powder in it. He presumed it to be a spice) and raced over to his brother.

"What kind are they?" Balin asked eagerly, all worries gone about being caught.

"Let's find out," Frerin worked the lid off the jar, and took a cookie out. He bit into it, taking out a small chunk and tasting it.

"Chocolate," he concluded after a moment's pause.

"Let's divide them out," Thorin said hastily, seeing his friend's greedy faces as they eyed the cookies. "So it's fair."

In the end, they got two each. Frerin had quickly laid claim on the last, left over cookie, stating that, "I was the one who found the jar, so I should get an extra cookie."

No one could argue against that, so they didn't.

"Wow," Tosur said through his mouthful of cookie crumbs. "These are _good_,"

"That's because Master Tybag's the best cook in Erebor," Dwalin took a bite out of his cookie. "It's kinda obvious, since he's the Main Cook in the Royal Kitchens."

"Well, Dwalin," Tosur popped the last bit of his cookie into his mouth. "If we do get caught, it was _totally_ worth it."

Suddenly, the kitchen door burst open. The kitchen dwarves swarmed in, not taking any notice of the young dwarrows propped up against the stone bench, guilty expressions and cookie crumbs smeared across their faces. A chocolate coloured Labrador bounded up to Thorin and began licking the crumbs off his face.

"Hey, Toak," He began patting the dog.

"Prince Thorin, Prince Frerin and friends!" boomed a voice.

_Uh oh_, Thorin thought as the intimidating figure of Master Tybag strode up to them.

"Have you heard the news?"

Thorin thought he didn't hear correctly. "Excuse me, what?"

"I said, have you heard the news?" he laughed heartily.

"You're…not going to chase us away for stealing the cookies?" Balin asked hesitantly, earning him a sharp slap from Dwalin.

"Of course not! Something miraculous has happened!"

"Which is…?" Frerin enquired.

"Why, probably the most marvellous jewel that has ever been found beneath Erebor!" He leaned down to whisper the name of this mysterious jewel, as Toak bounded around them with excitement.

"It is called…_The Arkenstone_."

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**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**

**The dog on a spit thing was something I got from a TV show- they used to do that in the Stuart Era, apparently. I don't know how, but they did it.**


	10. Unveiling

***sigh* Isn't it hateful? I found out an idea to a new story, but I can't write it yet because I'm working on this story!**

**Maybe I'll put this on hiatus after a few more chapters...it won't really matter as I don't have many follows or favourites...**

**Enjoy!**

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Frerin roughly pulled out the wooden chair and pointed at it. "Sit."

Thorin took his seat in front of the mirror and sighed. When he did, Frerin immediately grabbed a few strands of hair and began carefully, but quickly braiding.

"Tell me why this is necessary again," He folded his arms, glaring at his reflection.

"Because you are going to meet the representatives of the Seven Dwarf Kingdoms. I'd think they'd be expecting the young Prince to look a bit tidier!"

"Yeah, but they're a bunch of greying dwarves—why would they care?"

"You know dwarves take pride in their looks, which _you_ don't," Frerin was already on his second braid. "Plus, there might be dwarf lasses,"

"Oh, so this is about the ladies now," Thorin accused jestingly.

"Well, you'd want to make first good impressions, don't you?"

Thorin stared at Frerin through the mirror. "You're not actually serious, are you?"

"I'm _very_ serious, dear brother. I eavesdropped on our Grandfather and Father earlier. They were planning to put you into an arranged marriage,"

This sentence had an instant response. Thorin swiftly turned around, his face almost colliding with Frerin's hands. "What!?"

"You ruined the braid!" his brother snapped. "Now I have to do it all over again!"

"Hey! We're talking about my arranged marriage here! What did they say!?"

"Turn around first,"

Thorin grudgingly turned around to face the mirror again, as Frerin continued on his braid. "Okay, what did they say?"

"Grandfather said that he'd sent a raven a few days ago, to invite the Kingdoms to look upon the splendour of the Arkenstone," Frerin said. Neither of the brothers had actually seen it yet—today would be the day in which their Grandfather would unveil it. "Apparently, he also told the ravens to tell the dwarven rulers to bring along any available female suitors for his 'eldest grandson'."

"Outrageous," Thorin hissed, seething with annoyance. "Didn't Father say anything against it?"

"You know Father and Mother were put into an arranged marriage, right?" Frerin pointed out.

"They were lucky!" he retorted. "I don't think I'm going to find my One from an arranged marriage!"

Ones were very complicated subjects in the matter of dwarves. It is said that a dwarf can never be truly happy, until they find their One—the dwarf that they would marry. A reason why many dwarves didn't marry was because either their One was married to someone else, or they simply could not find their One.

"Anyway, I think you should still look handsome and prince-ly," Frerin said, slipping a silver bead on the end of the finished braid. "And then you probably mention…just in passing… that you have an extremely dashing younger brother who's available…"

Thorin slapped him.

"And now, for the unveiling of the Arkenstone!"

Thorin tried to look as impressive as possible, while Frerin puffed out his chest and tried to look as _handsome as possible_. Not long after he and his brother had gotten ready, the giant gates of Erebor had opened, and the first few visitors had already streamed in. As time progressed, more and more dwarves came in, milling around the Hall of Kings with the other residents of Erebor. As it turned out, many dwarf lasses were there as well. Well, many for dwarven standards.

"Ooh, look," Frerin had pointed out, as a lass drifted past them in a light green wave. "She looks nice,"

Thorin had made a face. "Not for me."

"What about her?"

"Too purple,"

"Her?"

"Too elaborately dressed,"

"HER!?"

"Just…no,"

"Seriously Thorin," Frerin had commented. "You're too harsh a critic,"

"None of those dwarrowdams are my One!" Thorin had snapped back. "What in Mahal's name was Grandfather thinking?"

They had continued arguing, until Thror had shut them up. He began by saying some lengthy speech about how Erebor was thriving with wealth and life, and then he began talking about the Arkenstone. He praised the miner who found it (a dwarf named Holnirn) and had presented him with a large chest full of treasures. And then he announced to bring in the Arkenstone.

A large object covered by a red, velvet robe was carried out by four dwarves. There was utter silence over the whole hall, as they placed it down.

"Wow, it must be big," Frerin whispered in Thorin's ear.

The dwarf grabbed the edge of the velvet cloth, and pulled the whole thing off with a flourish, revealing the object underneath.

It was a throne, carved from marble, stone, silver and gold. In a small scoop—just above where the person would sit, surrounded by a decorative motif carved from gold, was the Arkenstone.

It was as if the gem shone with its own light. It was pure white and radiant—like the stars that shone above Erebor, but shot through with streaks of rainbow colours. Thorin could understand the excitement of Master Tybag, as he stared upon this legendary jewel.

"Stop it!" Someone pinched him. He turned to see Frerin, who was not so easily enraptured by the Arkenstone. "You look like the fools gaping at it down there,"

It was true. All the dwarves gathered in the Hall of Kings were looking at the Arkenstone with wonder upon their faces.

"This jewel signifies my right to rule," Thror shouted. "And that my line will continue to rule after me for many ages! This Arkenstone will unite the Seven Kingdoms of the Dwarves!"

Then, one by one, each ruler of the Kingdoms came up, and swore loyalty to the Arkenstone, and whoever held possession of it.

"Serious stuff," Frerin muttered.

"Now, to feast!" his Grandfather roared, and the dwarves began milling out, heading towards the Main Hall.

"Hello there," As Thorin and Frerin were about to leave, they were ambushed by dwarrowdams.

"So, you're looking for a female suitor?" One of them said. She was wearing a light shade of blue. "I'm Adra, by the way,"

"Ummm…not really," Thorin looked down and shuffled his feet. _Curse my awkwardness!_ "It's actually my Grandfather forcing me into an arranged marriage,"

"Oh," The look on Frerin's and the dwarrowdam's faces told him that was the wrong thing to say.

"Anyway," said a purple covered dwarf lass. "If you want to see us, we live in the Iron Hills. If you want to know my name, I'm Bazdeth."

"Oookkayyy," Thorin said, slowly backing away. "Right," He was getting very freaked out and overwhelmed.

"We were all handpicked by Lord Gror," A green-robed lass said. "I'm Ginla,"

"And I'm Morah," another one piped up quickly, whilst shooting a glare Ginla's way.

Frerin, sensing his older brother's discomfort, stepped forward. "Of course, if Thorin already secretly admires one of you, I'm still single—"

"Oh shut up," One of them snapped. "Look at you—you don't even have a beard. Plus," She batted her eyelashes at Thorin, as the other dwarrowdams agreed with her. "I only want your brother,"

"That's it, I hate you all," Thorin said abruptly without thinking. "You can all scoot back to the Iron Hills,"

"But why!?" they wailed.

"Because you insulted my brother, who is a charming, kind dwarf that would care for your every need if you ever married him. Anyone dwarf who marries someone based on looks is no good to me. Now _go,_"

Sniffing disdainfully, they turned in a swirl of coloured silk and left.

"Wow," Frerin looked at him. "You'd really do that? If they didn't like me, you wouldn't marry them?"

Thorin laughed. "Of course, brother! However attractive they may be for dwarven standards, I think they're ugly if they think _you're_ ugly. Plus, didn't you see how they acted?"

"They were so up themselves," Frerin put on a very convincing high-pitched voice. "Hi! I'm Ginla! I love you Thorin! In fact, I love you even more I love myself! Will you marry me!?"

Thorin punched him, and they collapsed from laughter.

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**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**


	11. Rightful Pay

**Oh my gosh I'm enjoying typing my other story so much! Because of that, this will update more slowly, but it'll continue for sure!**

**Enjoy!**

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_Durin I, better known as Durin the Deathless, was the first creation of Mahal. He was the eldest of the Seven Fathers of Dwarves. Durin was to sleep alone until the elves came to Middle Earth. Upon his awaking in the Years of the Trees, he—_

"Thorin!"

Thorin's quill skidded sideways at the sudden break in the silence of the Erebor Library. It made a large, black line across his parchment, as well as a nice-sized tear.

"Do…you…mind!?" he snarled, crunching up his page for Master Foln. "I was writing a _very_ meticulous article on Durin the Deathless!"

"I wouldn't have interrupted you if it wasn't important," Frerin staggered to a halt next to Thorin's table. He seemed out of breath, as if he had run across Erebor to deliver the news, and Mahal knows how big Erebor is. "It's about the visitors coming later,"

"Yes, I knew about that," Thorin stood up to grab another sheet of parchment. "So?"

Frerin's hand flashed out to stop Thorin from grabbing the paper. "Well, I found out who it was,"

Thorin looked at him. "Who?"

His brother took a deep breath. "Elves—and not just any elf—_King Thranduil of the Woodland Realms._"

Thorin swore in Khuzdul. "The shaggiest of all the tree shaggers! How did you come by this knowledge?"

"The ravens," The brunette sounded grim. "I heard them reporting to Grandfather when I was passing the Hall of Kings. "

"And there's no way to stop this visit?"

"The ravens said the elves would be arriving at Erebor in a few hours."

"Then we must get ready," Thorin tilted his chin up. "We cannot let these _elves_ make fools of the Line of Durin!"

"Oof!" Frerin puffed as a large mahogany chest was placed in his arms. Judging by the way he staggered slightly when receiving it, Thorin knew it was very heavy. "What in Mahal's name is in this thing?"

"Something from the Hoards," Thror languished on his new throne. He looked impressive, with his jewelled beard, furs and the Arkenstone shining above his head. "We want to impress King Thranduil, and show off our wealth," He motioned Frerin to come closer, and whispered in his ear, before sending him to stand next to Thorin, on the right of the throne.

"What did he say?" Thorin asked as Frerin took his place. His brother shrugged.

"Just something,"

"You still got that bead?" Thorin smiled when Frerin pulled the hair behind his ear to show the bead Thorin had crafted for his 15th Birth day.

"King Thranduil," Thror greeted as the elves glided up to the throne. "A pleasure to see you here,"

"The pleasure is all mine, King Thror," Thranduil's voice was cool, as he acknowledged his Grandfather with a slight cock of the head. He was dressed in a draping gown that shimmered with silver when he walked, and a crown of red berries and leaves sat atop his fiery blonde hair. Thorin shivered when the Elven King's gaze swept over him and his brother, as it was as cold as ice, and held no warmth. Frerin shuddered slightly and pressed a bit closer to Thorin.

"Of course, you have heard of the Arkenstone?" Thror asked, motioning to the jewel above his head. "It is the symbol of my Line,"

Thorin did not like how Thranduil's gaze seemed to linger upon the gem for a long time. "Indeed, King Thror,"

"The Seven Kingdoms of the Dwarves have sworn loyalty to the bearer of the Arkenstone, and will unite if the bearer is ever in danger," Thror's eyes became beady as he looked at Thranduil. "Will _you_ swear?"

_Sneaky,_ Thorin thought as Thranduil was taken slightly aback at the request. He knew that if he agreed, he would be swearing loyalty to one of his worst enemies. If he didn't, he would bring war upon himself.

Thorin could tell it took a bit of effort for Thranduil and his posse to kneel down and basically swear loyalty to Thror.

"Of course, being generous benefactors," Thror continued once Thranduil had finished saying the oath. "We present you with a…present,"

Frerin quickly flashed a sideways glance at Thorin, before stepping down to the front of the throne, the chest in his arms. At a nod from Thror, he opened the lid.

Thranduil's face was bathed in a soft, glowing light that seemed to emit from the chest. Thorin craned his neck, just catching a glimpse of a collection of white gems. It was as if they were hewn from the Arkenstone itself, despite the fact they weren't shot through with many colours.

"We offer these gems, as a token of our alliance," Thror smiled, though there was no warmth in it. Thranduil's gaze seemed only fixed on these gems, his mouth slightly parted in wonder. He reached out a pale hand, slowly bringing it closer to the gems, as if he couldn't wait to hold them.

"For a price."

Just as Thranduil was about to touch the gems, Frerin quickly shut the lid of the chest with a _bang_ that echoed ominously on the stone columns of the hall. Thorin turned to look at his Grandfather in disbelief, but the expression on Thror's face showed nothing but undisguised, malicious delight.

"Long ago, you asked my people to shape your raw gold and silver," Thror continued. "When worked to deliver your metals, you did not give us our rightful pay. When you do, you may have these gems."

Thranduil smiled, though it was tight-lipped and strained. "Certainly, _King Thror_. Though do not let your greed and wealth rule your heart and mind. It will bring misfortunes upon us all." His gaze flickered to Thorin for a heartbeat, before he turned and left the hall.

As soon as the doors closed behind the procession, Thorin rounded on his Grandfather.

"What was that all about?" he hissed. "Are you trying to incur the wrath of King Thranduil!?"

"My son," Thrain looked uncomfortable. "The elves did not give us our rightful pay,"

"Yes, but would you _humiliate_ him? First make him swear loyalty to you on his knees, and then refuse him those gems after offering them!?"

"Elves are very tricky, Thorin," Thror chuckled. "You must understand that when you're king,"

There was a light in his Grandfather's eyes, but he couldn't tell what it was. He turned away in disgust and walked away, flinging the next words over his shoulder.

"When I am king, I would not do that."

* * *

**Comments? Criticism? Both are welcome!**

**I did a lot of research in the appendices of LOTR and Google to find a reason why...the events that happened above happened! I hope I wrote something legit enough :)**


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